Chapter 3
Penny Correa POV
The cast-iron radiator beneath the kitchen window rattled like a trapped animal, coughing dry, metallic steam into the drafty fifth-floor apartment.
Outside, Plattsburgh was submerged in the pitch-black freeze of five in the morning, the wind howling off Lake Champlain and driving fine needles of sleet against the rattling glass.
One hundred and ten days remained until the ECAC Championship in Lake Placid.
I stood at the laminate counter, aggressively packing my black canvas satchel.
The plastic goniometer went into the side pocket with a sharp click.
Two elastic resistance bands—yellow for five pounds, red for ten—were rolled and shoved beside my stainless-steel stopwatch and the heavy three-ring clinical binder Dr. Vance had stamped with my name forty-eight hours ago.
One hundred and twenty hours.
The math had been running through my head on an endless, sickening loop: four hours a day, five days a week, for six straight weeks. All to pay off eighteen thousand dollars of shattered telemetry and keep my name on the nomination docket for the Vanderveer Fellowship.
Across the small table, Chloe Ross sat in an oversized gray sweatshirt, methodically wiping down the high-carbon steel blades of her Jackson Freestyle figure skates with an oiled chamois cloth.
Her movements were smooth, rhythmic, and terrifyingly observant.
She hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, but her sharp blue eyes tracked every twitch of my shoulders.
"You're going to tear the zipper off that bag, Pen," Chloe said, her voice dry as salt.
My fingers paused on the teeth of the nylon bag. I forced my posture straight, drawing in a slow, calculated breath that tasted of chicory coffee and radiator dust. "The zipper is fine."
"The zipper is begging for mercy, and so is that silver ring on your thumb.
" Chloe set the chamois down, resting her chin on her palm.
"You’ve been pacing since four. Your jaw is locked tight enough to crack a walnut, and you haven't touched your oatmeal.
Are you going to tell me what Dr. Vance said, or am I supposed to guess why you look like you're heading to an execution? "
I swallowed against the sudden constriction in my throat.
I couldn't tell her the full story—NCAA medical confidentiality bound my clinical license, and Dean Sterling had made it abundantly clear that if a single rumor leaked regarding Justin Ibarra's separated shoulder, both of us would be expelled before sunset.
"I was assigned a private clinical case," I said, keeping my tone clipped and professional. "A mandatory off-the-books assignment in Lab 04. Vance offered to clear the cost of the damaged Noraxon sensors if I oversee the post-injury stabilization protocol."
Chloe’s eyes narrowed instantly. "Who is the athlete?"
"It doesn't matter. It’s an assignment."
"Penny." Chloe leaned forward, her gaze cutting straight through my defensive front.
"The entire athletic wing knows Justin Ibarra got tossed from the McGill scrimmage for nearly putting a forward through the glass, and half the varsity rumors say he hasn’t been seen on the practice sheet since Tuesday.
Tell me Vance didn't tie you to Number Four. "
I didn't answer. I pulled the drawstring of my satchel tight, my knuckles whitening against the cord.
Chloe let out a low whistle, shaking her head. "You have lost your mind."
"I don't have a choice," I snapped, the heat flaring in my chest. "If I walk away, Vance drops my Vanderveer nomination. That forty-five thousand dollars pays my tuition and gets me into an Olympic training facility in Colorado. Without it, I’m drowning in my father's bad paper."
"Justin Ibarra doesn't just play rough, Penny—he destroys whatever gets inside his perimeter," Chloe warned, her voice dropping into deadly seriousness.
"He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't do campus life. Two years ago, a booster’s kid tried to push him at a bar on Margaret Street, and Ibarra put him through a drywall partition without blinking.
He carries something dark behind his eyes, and if he feels cornered, he will take you down with him. "
"He's a patient," I said, hoisting the strap onto my shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the cold knot of dread tightening beneath my ribs.
"He is torn ligaments, an elevated clavicle, and inflamed fascial planes.
I don't care about his brooding, his fists, or his NHL draft status. He sits on my table, he does his reps, and I log my hours. It’s a transaction. "
Chloe looked at me with deep, unyielding skepticism. "You keep telling yourself that, Pen. Just make sure you leave the door unlocked."
* * *
The subterranean basement of The Forge felt like an industrial bunker abandoned during the Cold War.
Two flights below the ice sheet, the air was heavy with humidity, smelling of scale-inhibitor chemicals from the massive brine boilers, chlorine from the hydrotherapy immersion tanks, and damp concrete that had never seen sunlight.
The distant, mechanical drone of the compressor pumps vibrated up through the soles of my sneakers, a constant, low-frequency hum that settled behind my teeth.
Subterranean Lab 04 was a rectangular cell of unpainted cinderblock, lit by four humming fluorescent tubes that buzzed with an irritating flicker.
In the center of the room sat a single hydraulic treatment plinth covered in black vinyl.
Along the back wall stood a stainless-steel ultrasound console, a wire rack of red and yellow resistance bands, and a calibrated isokinetic dynamometer bolted to the foundation.
It was 5:54 AM.
I set my satchel down on the rolling metal utility cart.
My breath hitched as I arranged the diagnostic tools with clinical symmetry: goniometer aligned with the edge of the stainless steel, antiseptic wipes stacked beside the hypoallergenic ultrasound gel, the fresh clinical logbook opened to Day 1.
My fingers were ice-cold. I rubbed my palms against the thighs of my black utility trousers, trying to steady the frantic, shallow rhythm of my respiration.
Focus. You are the clinician. You control the protocol.
The heavy, steel-clad door did not knock. The latch gave a sharp, mechanical click, and the door swung open, dragging against the uneven concrete floor.
Justin Ibarra stepped into the room, and the four hundred square feet of space instantly shrank to nothing.
He didn't just enter; he occupied the air.
He was six-foot-four of raw, imposing mass, wearing dark gray athletic shorts and a sleeveless black Ironclads compression shirt that left his massive arms and broad clavicles completely bare.
His shoulders were wide enough to block out the doorway behind him, the corded muscle of his traps bunched and defensive.
His dark hair was still wet from a cold rinse, curling slightly against his nape, and the two-inch jagged scar through his left eyebrow stood out pale against his bronze skin.
He smelled of crushed cedar, the bitter zinc of fresh athletic tape on his left wrist, and a deep, oppressive heat that cut through the basement chill like an open furnace.
He paused in the threshold, his dark, hooded eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. There was no greeting in his face. No softening of the brutal, stone-carved lines of his jaw.
"You're late," I lied, my voice sounding far steadier than the chaotic thudding in my chest. "Session was scheduled for six sharp."
Justin glanced at the digital clock on the wall, which read 5:57. A muscle along his masseter flicked, his jaw clenching in slow, deliberate irritation.
He didn't argue. He kicked the heavy fire door shut with the heel of his sneaker, the latch engaging with a definitive, hollow thud that echoed like a vault sealing.
He crossed the room in two slow, predatory strides, dumping his canvas duffel bag onto the only extra stool in the corner, sending it spinning into the wall.
Then he turned, leaning his lower back against the high edge of the hydraulic plinth, crossing his long legs at the ankles.
He folded his thick arms over his chest—wincing almost imperceptibly as the right deltoid engaged—and looked down at me from his towering height.
He took up too much space. His massive frame made the stainless-steel equipment look fragile, his sheer physical dominance filling every corner of the room.
"I'm here, Correa," he rumbled, the gravelly bass of his voice vibrating against my ribs. "Start the clock."
* * *
I picked up the metal clipboard, using it as a physical shield between us. My fingernails bit into the cold aluminum edge as I stepped forward, stopping two feet from the plinth. Up close, the heat radiating off his bare torso was suffocating, washing over my face in waves.
"Sit up on the table," I commanded, forcing my voice into the detached, authoritative cadence Dr. Vance used during clinical assessments.
"We have twenty minutes of passive range of motion before we even look at the resistance bands.
I need baseline measurements of external rotation and scapular protraction. "
Justin didn't move. He stayed leaned against the vinyl, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an arrogant, unhurried intensity that made the skin along my collarbones prickle with heat.
"You really think you're running this, don't you?" he murmured, his tone laced with a dark, mocking amusement that grated against my raw nerves.
"Dr. Vance put me in charge of your clearance, Ibarra. If you don't follow the protocol, I don't sign the log. If I don't sign the log, you don't skate against Harvard in January. It’s that simple."
Justin tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the rapid flutter of the pulse point exposed at the hollow of my throat. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by something heavier, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.
"You talk a lot about rules for someone who's one bad report away from losing her scholarship," he said, his voice dropping an octave, dragging low and rough across the quiet room.
Before I could retaliate, he unfolded his arms. He didn't sit on the plinth. He took half a step forward, closing the distance between us until his broad chest was hovering four inches from mine. His sheer bulk cast a dense shadow over my face, blocking out the glare of the fluorescent lights.
He reached out his left hand and planted it flat on the stainless-steel cart right beside my hip, effectively trapping me between his heavy forearm and the treatment table.
My breath caught in my throat, my bronchi constricting as my lungs seized on the dry, cedar-scented air.
"You want to measure me, Correa?" he whispered, leaning down until his mouth was level with my ear, his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. "Then put the clipboard down and do your job. Stop hiding behind the metal."
The sheer proximity was overwhelming. I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his dark irises, could see the tension corded in his neck as he fought the pain in his right shoulder. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a battering ram, my extremities tingling with a sharp surge of adrenaline.
He wanted me to back down. He wanted me to scramble away from his space, to admit that his size and his proximity were too much for me to handle.
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
I set the clipboard down on the cart with a deliberate, ringing clatter.
I stepped into his space, my chest coming within an inch of his sternum. I tilted my chin up, meeting his hooded, intense gaze without blinking, my hands rising between us.
"Sit on the table, Justin," I said, my voice dropping to a low, quiet murmur that held no fear, only unyielding resolve. "Or I will make this evaluation hurt a lot more than it has to."
A flash of genuine surprise broke through his guarded expression. For a split second, the air between us turned volatile, thick with a mutual, suffocating awareness that had nothing to do with medicine.
Then, Justin gave a single, dark nod. He stepped back and hauled his massive frame up onto the black vinyl plinth, sitting with his back straight, his bare, scarred shoulders braced for impact.
"Do your worst, sweetheart," he rasped.
I reached out.
My fingers, cool and trembling slightly, made contact with his bare skin, pressing firmly into the inflamed junction of his right acromioclavicular joint.
Justin went dead still. His entire body locked up like iron under my touch, his breath cutting off in a sharp, guttural hiss as my fingertips mapped the swollen, damaged tissue. A violent tremor rippled through the corded muscle of his neck.
I looked up, our eyes colliding in the cold light. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the brown, his jaw working as if he were trying to swallow fire.
My fingers burned where they rested against his scalding skin. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: there was no clinical distance in this room. There was no armor thick enough to survive one hundred and twenty hours of this man.
We were locked in the dark together, and the fire had already started.